


Castiel the Stripper is Covered in Sparkles for No Good Reason

by countermilk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countermilk/pseuds/countermilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a stripper who gets hired by a rich scum-bag by the name of Dick Roman, who just so happens to have a worker named Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Castiel the Stripper is Covered in Sparkles for No Good Reason

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annachuu](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=annachuu), [tonosamanjuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonosamanjuu/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, annachuu!
> 
> Thank-you for coming up with so many good prompt ideas! I picked the first one because a) I haven't actually tried writing a really risqué fic before and I was excited to have an excuse, and also because b) yay strippers. So yeah... maybe not entirely Christmas appropriate, but I tried. I hope I didn't botch up too many of the details, but I wanted to keep things light and I don't actually know very much about strip clubs in general. -.- Sorry. Also, I really really wanted to go farther into the whole thespian thing, but the reality is that I just simply didn't have time. But yeah! I hope you enjoy, and have an awesome holiday! 
> 
> And also you have my sincerest apologies in advance for the cheesy stripper flirting. 
> 
> Cheers!
> 
> Sorry for any errors, no beta and a timed situation.

Dean Winchester shouldn't be working for a number of very, very good reasons. One, his head is pounding, and he keeps breaking out into a cold sweat every time he has to do so much as slam a freaking car door. Two, it's Wednesday, which is Dean's day off to begin with. But, since apparently Dick Roman doesn't take "no," or "I can't," or "Do you want me to puke on your impossibly overpriced loafers?" for any kind of an answer, instead of being at home, asleep, like he should be, Dean's been stuck here for two hours now, and it feels like fucking hell. 

The club is called Liaisons, and Dick strolls into the lobby like he owns the place. Dean wouldn't be surprised if he did, actually, what with all the mergers this week, but it doesn't really matter because Dick's a billion-billionaire, and when you're a billion-billionaire, people act like you own them even when you don't. It's a fact of life. Dean sees it everyday.

And yeah, maybe Dick does deserve a little respect- he did actually work for his money, after all, unlike ninety nine percent of the other scuzzballs here- but, still, Dean just wishes Dick wouldn't be such a fucking dick about it all the fucking time. 

Exhibit A: Dick Roman's treatment of his employees, namely Dean. 

Exhibit B: Dick Roman's treatment of pretty much every one fucking else. 

Like, for example, the couple of admittedly diverting strippers waiting by the grand arch way that marks the club's main floor. 

Dick winks at them as he passes, and smirks as they fall into step beside him almost immediately. "You two are lovely," he drawls, taking their arms, "I'd charm the pants off you, if you were wearing any.

"We know, Mr. Roman," tones the one on the left, and the one on the right simpers, tossing her hair. "Fancy putting your money wear your mouth is to.. subtract another layer?"

"My money?" Dick repeats, because god and Dean both know Dick will never pass up an opportunity to talk about his money.

"It's an expression…" the girl on the left explains hesitantly, and Dick gives her a look and shoves them both off unceremoniously without so much as a second glance. "Stop," he says, and the girls drop back immediately. "Don't talk to me again. Zachariah should be here," he says, turning to Dean, "Find him."

"Yes sir," Dean clips, because he it's all he can do to keep himself from murder. Six months… he chants to himself, Six months. I can do this. Only six more month of this, and then I'm out. 

Because in six months, Dean will have enough to move back to Kansas, where Sammy is. He'll be able to leave Dick and this heartlessness behind, take a position at a car shop, maybe, or work security somewhere good. 

"Now, Dean," commands Dick, somewhat dryly.

Luckily, Zachariah isn't too hard to find because his baldness shines like a beacon in the flashing lights. He's short, a little tubby, and dressed in an expensive looking suit that matches the general decor in a sleazy way, sheeny olive-browns and blacks trimmed with red. Definitely over done, even in a room like this one that's filled with nothing but satin and shimmer and shine. The fabric glisters a little in the flare of the multi-coloured lights threatening to throw Dean's already aching head into convulsions. He tries not to look at it. 

"Dick Roman!" Zachariah exclaims, spreading his arms wides, "I'd no idea we had the honour!" 

"Zachariah," Dick replies smoothly, "Loving the suit! Absolutely resplendent! You must recommend me to your tailor." The little grin that pops up on Zachariah's face is sickening. 

"How do you like my palace?" Zachariah asks, sliding over the compliment with a smug expression. (So Dick doesn't own the place. Figures.) "Cost me the world, you know, but I expect I've made it all back by now twice over. Very popular reviews. The moonshine's a hit." 

"Congratulations," Dick simpers, doing something with his lips and teeth that's probably supposed to come off as a "genuine" smile. "It is all very impressive."

Zachariah ducks his head, sliding his fingers together with the thumbs sticking out in a little "what can I say?" sort of gesture, but he's still smiling. "There's nothing to compare. I do hope you enjoy yourself- and, thanks again for that little stint with the firm last week, Roman, I really don't know what I would have done without you." He winks. "First round's on me."

Dick looks at Dean, and that's Dean's cue to turn and elbow his way through the crowd towards the bar. The room's fairly open, with high ceilings and little oasis-style clusters of tables and unnecessary fountains gathered around a couple of raised platforms, some of which contain exotic looking plants, and others of which contain exotic looking dancers, but right now they're one and the same to Dean. The main dance floor is packed, but because the song's just changed again there are little streams of couples moving in and out, laughing and stumbling drunkenly in Dean's way. Dean's always been more of the sports bar-type, and by the time he gets to the bar he's almost been turned off strip-clubs forever- almost. 

The bar tender is cute. She's got red hair and big dopey eyes and Dean can feel it when she smiles at him like she knows exactly what to do… And as it turns out, she does. 

"One Moonshine coming right up," she says, reaching for a bottle. "You're Dick Roman's kid, right?"

Dean bristles a little- maybe he works for Roman, but he's not his, and he's definitely not a kid. 

"Yeah. How did you know?"

"Saw you come in. I'm Anna. Shaken or stirred?"

"Stirred," Dean replies automatically, but he gets the feeling the question was merely a habitual one, because she's already sliding the glass towards him. "Thanks." He wonders how Anna knows how Dick likes his martinis. He wonders how Anna knows Dick wanted a martini. God damn, but if the cut of that dress isn't low. 

"No problem," she grins. "You been here before?"

"No," Dean shakes his head, shouting a little, because the music's changed again- something rock now, with a heavy bass line- and it's actually kind of hard to hear. 

"Come by again sometime," Anna responds, at the same volume. "When you're not working." She slips him a napkin, and there's a number on it. Dean just blinks for a second, because it's been a long time, but then he tucks it into his pocket- she dimples and flutters a little- and takes the drink. 

It doesn't take him too long to spot Dick again, sunk into something plush and watching the dancers with a heady expression on his face.

It takes Dick a moment to zero in on him. "Winchester?" he asks, eyes narrowed, but then his attention snaps back to the stage. Dean can't help but sneak a look too, but the current performers are just slipping off to be replaced. Dick puffs out a little breath, eyes filled with lust as he watches them go. 

"Here," Dean says, handing over the glass, and Dick takes it. 

"What do you think of the peelers?" he asks after a moment, suddenly companionable, and Dean has to fake a look of good natured envy. It's a game they play, or Dick does- pretending like they're buddies when no one's around. Dean doesn't know why. He thinks it has something to do with the guy's deep seated desire to manipulate everyone around him. All the time. God, Dean hates him. "Which one would you fuck?" Dick asks, the corners of his mouth twisting up hellishly as he sips at his drink. He looks like a shark. A sheeny, maliciously baby-faced shark. Dean scans the stage. 

There's four dancers now, two men and two women. Left to right, there's a a blonde, a brunette, a blonde, and-- a brunette again. But not just a brunette. A very, very, angry, obviously completely pissed brunette, and not in the drunken way. He's practically glaring at them, shooting fucking ice daggers with his eyes, and Dean does a double take, because the guy can't really be looking like that at him? It's hard to tell in the dark. It could be the lighting. He lets his arms hang unnaturally at his sides like deadweights, tries to keep a neutral expression, blend in. He's not a paying customer here. He doesn't deserve to be looked at like that. Stop it, he thinks, and then immediately after Don't stop, look at me, but the man has already twisted away, still moving to the bass line. The music's a vicious beat, and the dancing is violent, bloody. Dean follows it with his eyes for as long as he can, until the room starts to swim a little and it takes him a moment to realize that his heart is pounding. Then Dean throws up. 

"What the- Winchester!" Dick barks, "Stand up!"

Dean's wheezing. 

"Sorry sir," he manages, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

"What the hell!" Dick shouts, "What in fucking hell!"

"Do you need to step out for a moment?" It's Zachariah. Where the hell did he come from? Dean wonders, but then he's throwing up again. 

"No," Dick answers for him. "Clean that up. This place smells."

"I'll call someone," Zachariah sighs, and there's already a hand on Dean's elbow guiding him away from the mess. 

"I'm fine," he mumbles, glancing up at the stage again, but… Where did he go? 

"God." Dick rubs at his brow, collapsing back down again. "Can't a guy have at least one decent night out for a change?"

"That's going to stain," Zachariah mutters, throwing Dean a dirty look, which makes Dean feel infinitely better, because if he had to fuck up a carpet, he's glad it was this guy's. Actually, his head feels way clearer now that his stomach's settled. He's still shaky and a little clammy, but all in all- better. He looks for the dancers again. There!- still there after all, dipping and twisting and… sliding. He feels almost relieved, but that can't be it because- Dean swallows. Wow. Speaking of dipping. The man's backing around the pole in centre stage, all smooth skin and tights pants and- dark hair- sharp jaw- arms- is that a tattoo?- and Dean's definitely off tonight. Out of sorts. Still woozy. Because he definitely didn't just check out his- no. Horny and sick is a terrible combination. 

"Who's the hot mess centre stage?" Dick asks, and Dean starts a little because he'd forgotten where he was again. Damn. Dean, Concentrate! Six months. He's going to want something now. The dick. 

"The one in the leather?" Zachariah asks, apparently happy to move on from the topic of vomit.

"With the wing tattoos," Dick nods, and Dean's stomach does a little flip-flop. Okay, so not completely better.

"I mean, who is he really, in employee terms?"

"Castiel," Zachariah replies, "Castiel Novak." And that's a stage name if Dean's ever heard one. Not that it matters. 

"Does he only dance?" Dick asks.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, is exotic dancing his only profession?" Dick continues. "Do you hire him out?" 

Out as what? Dean thinks, because his head is apparently still not quite screwed in properly. On the stage, Castiel thrusts. 

"Yes, for private shows, if that's what you mean," Zachariah answers carefully, "But there are rules of course. I can arrange something, if you'd like. I must warn you, we have a strict no-contact policy, and dancers never stay over. Even off-duty. Let's just make that clear right now."

Wait. Wait wait wait. What are they talking about? Does Dick want…? 

"Dean?" 

And Dick's looking at him now, eyes hard, expectant. 

"Wh-what?" Dean stammers.

"Are you done fucking up?"

"Yes sir."

Zachariah presses a card into his palm and shoves him towards the door. 

"Ask for Castiel, in the back," he says, "Tell him he's booked out for… tomorrow evening…?" Zachariah looks at Dick. Dick nods. "He's leaving early today, so you shouldn't have to wait long- but don't miss him." 

And then Dean's being spun around and- oh, not such a good idea, hello nausea- sent stumbling back through the crowds again. 

What Dick's dick wants, it gets. 

***

Dean makes a quick trip to the bathroom to splash some water on his face, and then, after a routine shuffle through the club's security, Dean manages to find the dressing rooms at the end of a dim hallway with a thick, mauve coloured carpet that is really far too luxurious for a space apparently frequented by many sets of muddy, slushy boots. Dean can feel it squishing and squelching wetly with each step, accompanied by little gushy noises and the occasional bubble. It's disgusting, and, Dean thinks, definitely has to be some kind of health hazard for mildew or mold or something. Zachariah's interior decorators, who ever they were, were clearly lacking in the common sense department of long-term functionality. The whole thing sort of reminds him of his insides.

The door to Castiel's apartment is a milky brown, and Dean waits for a good ten minutes, knocking at various two minute intervals without getting a response, although he can hear people conversing inside, before finally trying the knob. It isn't Dean's first time doing this, and he isn't nervous, of course he isn't. Castiel isn't scary. He's just intimidatingly explicit. And mad. And Dean's just a little off colour because the ropes knotting in his stomach have apparently decided to engage in another round of cat's cradle, which is lovely. Vulnerability and vicious-ness always walk hand and hand with nerves.

When Dean opens the door he's pale faced and shaking in the knees and wearing his best, most beautiful grimace, the one Sam says makes him look like like a chimpanzee, and he marches in already wildly sweeping the walls for a face to glare at, balling his fists tight by his sides. 

"I need Castiel Novak, on business," he announces, allowing a little grit into his tone for affect. "And I don't have a lot of time, so if one of you could tell me where he's at so I can get out of here that would be peachy."

"What do you mean, 'on business?'" A short guy with longish sandy blond hair and an army green jacket asks from a counter top, sounding surprised. "You a customer?" Dean gives him a mean look. 

"Yeah," he grunts, "That's right. Where'd he go? Has he left already?" His insides give a little flip, still pursuing their unexpected upcoming career in trapeze artistry. Dean never was any good at somersaults. "He hasn't… left early, or something, has he?"

The guy eyes him up, somewhat smugly, apparently a little amused by Dean's fever, which is not encouraging, but he doesn't say anything. "You just missed him," he chirps instead, still polite, and Dean's stomach drops a little lower. 

"Oh."

"Just changing," the guy adds hurriedly, "Or rather, dressing- but he'll be out in a moment. I can take a message or give him your number if you have to go." 

"Oh…" 

Dean looks around for the bathroom door- now that he thinks about it, he can hear a shower running- but the room's long and narrow, a mess of dressers and chairs and closets, all suitably cluttered with clothes and bottles and shit-ton of glitter and feathers (left over from the "exotic" part of the dancing, Dean supposes, although he didn't remember Castiel sparkling.) 

"No thank-you," he says finally, and the guy smirks a bit. 

"Don't trust me?" 

"No." Dean frowns. The dude couldn't be bothered to answer his own freaking door. There's no way Dean's gonna give him his number and just trust that it magically makes it's way over to Castiel sometimes before the end of the evening. 

"I'm Gabriel," the guy pipes up again. "What's your name?" 

"Hi Gabriel," Dean glowers sarcastically. "Thanks for your help, but kindly screw off. I'm not in the mood."

Gabriel narrows his eyes, and opens his mouth to speak, but then a door's opening and there's a rush of steam as another man appears, taller than Gabriel, with laser-beam eyes of judgement and bedroom hair that even damp from a shower is for all the world even messier than it was when it was being wrecked on stage. Dean knows who it is immediately. 

"I am here," Castiel states frankly. He's wearing a trench coat that's long and tan (and leaves far too much to the imagination, Dean thinks randomly) and it looks like it's probably the only item in his wardrobe that's ever come within five feet of an iron because the rumpled suit he's wearing underneath has been buttoned up the wrong way, and his tie is on backwards hanging loose enough to be a scarf. It's not what Dean had pictured at all, based upon the edgy, dark-eyed dancing pillar of liquid sex that had been Castiel Novak on stage not twenty minutes ago. 

Now, fresh from the shower and decked out in civies, Castiel's stiff and still. The motion is gone, and he just stands there with a vague little frown that's more quizzical than annoyed, and, well… the most shocking change is that now there are sparkles stuck all over him from head to toe, like somebody took a six-year old's first tinker-bell costume and shook it over his head for an hour. There's glitter laced through his hair and the stubble along his jaw, and lifting from the fabric of his coat to float in little shimmers through the air whenever he moves. 

"These decorations will not wash off, Gabriel," he continues blandly. "I am not amused." 

Gabriel takes one look at him and starts wheezing. 

"Oh my god, Castiel," he chokes, "Oh my god! Oh my god. That's too good. I had no idea."

"What the hell happened?!" Dean asks, a little shocked, and Castiel turns to give him his second one-over of the evening. He doesn't seem quite as angry as before. The death glare is gone, and his eyes just sort of brush over Dean's hands and shoulders in a calculating sort of way. When they lift to settle upon Dean's there's face an initial shock of intensity that sends shivers rolling down Dean's spine, but then the sharpness hazes over, like Castiel's drawn up some weird veil of emotional cataract between himself and the world, and he goes back to just looking mildly put-out again. 

"I am sorry for my appearance," he apologizes, a little gruffly, looking away to engage in a cross stare-down with the front of his shirt. "My friend here decided to utilize costume supplies to christen the anniversary of my first shift. I find myself unable to remove the after affects."

"That's… it's okay," Dean assures him, pulling a smile out of his ass so as not to appear too unfriendly because the expression on Castiel's face is just… it's just a little cute. Not that Dean was looking. 

"How may I help you?" Castiel asks.

"My name is Dean Winchester, and-"

"-My name is Castiel." 

"Yes, I know," Dean nods, impatient to be interrupted, but not really, because Castiel is smiling now. Dean grins back. "Is that your real name?" he asks all at once, and then he freezes because that was definitely not what he was going to say, and it's totally a rookie question. Fuck. "I'm sorry," he rushes quickly, blushing. "I know it's not, don't know where that came from. Sorry."

"Don't worry, he gets that a lot," snorts Gabriel, still recovering his breath a little. "It's a freak name." 

Castiel ducks his head.

"Hey, it's not so bad," Dean finds himself declaring suddenly. "It's pretty, catches your attention. It's way better than some of the other crap names I've heard tonight. I mean, 'Honey Boobie?' 'Moby Dick the Semen Seamen?'" he scoffs. "They're ridiculous." 

"Hey, I helped make up that last one," Gabriel cries indignantly, sitting up a little. 

"Gabriel," Castiel murmurs in warning tones. "Dean's a guest." He says it like it means something. "And, actually it's not a stage name anyways, so…."

"So Castiel is your real name?" Dean blurts, because Zachariah was telling the truth? 

"Yes," Castiel affirms, "It is."

"Then what's your stage name?"

Now it's Castiel's turn to blush. "It is not of import. I don't really have a fixed alias…"

"Yes he does," Gabriel informs Dean seriously. "I helped pick it out. It's 'Burgur Buns.'" 

"Oh." Well then. "I like Cas better."

" 'Cas?' " quips Gabriel.

"What can I do for you, Dean?" Castiel asks quickly, but he looks pleased and Dean can't help but notice that he's using Dean's first name now. And even if Castiel is used to getting personal with strangers relatively quickly, for some reason the names thing is also making Dean feel ridiculously pleased, too.

"I spoke with Zachariah earlier," he says quickly, jumping back into business. "I was told you did, umm, private dances and such?"

"'And such,'" repeats Gabriel mockingly. 

"That is correct," Castiel nods. "Would you like to make an appointment?" Like it's the time of day.

"It's not for me," Dean says awkwardly, and Castiel blinks. "My boss. You may have heard of him. Dick Roman?"

"You want me to dance for Dick Roman?" Castiel asks, monotone, and he steps the tiniest step back, but to Dean it feels like a mile.

"If it's not too much trouble…"

"Well, since you ask so nicely." Castiel sounds almost angry again. He's tight lipped, and won't look Dean in the eye. "When?"

"Maybe, seven, tomorrow," Dean starts, but then his phone beeps. "Sorry," he mutters, glad for the distraction. It's Dick:

Heading out. Car interior a puke free zone. Get yourself home. 

"Shit," Dean mutters under his breath, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He supposes he should be grateful Dick even bothered to let him know what he was doing, but…

"What's wrong?" Castiel asks. 

"Lost my ride," Dean grunts. "Do you know- is there a train station around here?"

"Yes," Castiel affirms. "Take a left onto the road out back, and then a right left left right left ten foot kiddie-corner bridge right left u-turn around through the stairs and then another right. Should be around ten minutes, at a run, if you know where you're going."

"At a run."

"At a run."

There's a silence.

"You have no idea what I just said, do you." 

"Nope."

"It's a left left left right ten feet-" Castiel starts all over again, with no change at all.

"Wait, wait, Cas, stop," Dean sighs. "I don't- you wouldn't happen to have a map you could actually show me this on, would you?" 

Castiel actually fucking dimples. Apparently he's forgotten he was angry. "I can show you myself, if you'd like. I'm headed there next."

"Thanks," Dean spurts after a moment, because there's nothing else to say. 

And Castiel's watching him closely again. 

"Dean. You look pale," he starts hesitantly. "It's a long walk. Are you…? "

Dean doesn't say anything. 

"Well. I'll need an address and a phone number, and you'll need to sign some papers," Castiel continues after another long moment. "It won't take long."

"Right," Dean dips his head. Suddenly Gabriel's at his elbow handing him some forms and a pen. 

"Here you go bud," he says, still cheery. "I'll act as agent on this one." 

Dean takes the papers, and Castiel ducks into a closet to grab what looks like a lint brush and begins swiping it over his arms and shoulders. It doesn't do much. 

***

Castiel's route to the train station is probably the most indirect roundabout wanderingly serpentine whirl of a circuit Dean's ever seen. The turns seem more accidental than planned, and Castiel is constantly distracted by shop windows and sparrows in hedges and god knows whatever else was in that cardboard box. 

"Look, Cas," Dean says tiredly after the fifteen minutes at a walk has come and gone twice. "I don't mean to be rude or anything- I'm really glad you let me come with you and everything seeing as how this station of yours is apparently located in the middle of the freaking Bermuda triangle- but I gotta get home. I really need to get at least a solid four hours tonight. Do you think we can maybe hurry it up a bit here?"

"What did you say?" Castiel asks from the other side of the hedge. 

"I said, 'Cas, can you please get me home now?' " Dean repeats edgily. 

"Are you always going to be calling me 'Cas' then?" Castiel asks, popping up to shoot Dean a sidelong glance that comes across as slightly suspicious. 

"What? Castiel's a mouthful," Dean shrugs, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. 

"Mmm. I certainly am," Castiel agrees, disappearing again, and Dean has to pause and consider whether or not that was an innuendo. On the one hand, throughout the course of their little journey Dean's quickly come to realize that Cas' sense of humour is more than a little dry… and on the other hand Castiel is a stripper, and as such is exposed to crude sexual advances on a regular basis so he has to know how that sounded. Both make pretty good cases for flirting. And that's just… well, it would be enough to make anyone hot and bothered. Dean can't help it. He's thinking back to the club, remembering neon flares and curved backs and the world curling inside out upside down again, and trying to reconcile it with the man standing before him now. 

"Dean?" Castiel asks. He's emerged from the hedge, looking concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Dean says distractedly. "Yeah, I'm… dude, now you've got leaves and sparkles in your hair."

"What? Foliage too?" Castiel frowns, reaching up to dust off his head. "Damn it."

"It's your own fault," Dean tells him, but he can't help laughing a bit, too. "Here, let me help." He reaches out to brush off the tops of Castiel's shoulders. The night air's doing good things for his insides, and he's feeling almost pretty normal right now. Almost. His chest still feels a little swimmy. "You know, you're a bit of an odd duck, Cas," he says, sliding his hands up to help Castiel with his bangs. "Seriously, what were you doing in there?" 

"Oh," Castiel jumps, flinching a little in surprise as Dean's fingers nudge his own out of the way to stroke out a twig or two. Dean stops to look at him, but Castiel just gives him a small smile and a little shrug. "Thanks. I hope the glitter does not cling to you now."

"Me too," Dean grunts. Castiel's hair is soft. He's watching Dean through his lashes, trying to smile, and looking a little bashful but mostly just really, really annoyed.

"I must look homeless by now," he sighs, and Dean feels the air puff against his neck. "Fucking bush."

Dean boggles. For some reason he hadn't thought Castiel really swore.

"Fucking?" he repeats. 

"Yes. What?" 

Dean swallows. "Nothing." He let's his hands drop. There's this random fear from nowhere that Dean might let his fingers wander a little too far and brush over Castiel's blasphemous mouth. 

"Come on," he says, "We'd better go." 

Castiel eyes him up for a moment, all ultra-violet intensity and heated brimstone again. 

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asks, swaying into Dean's space.

"I'm fine," Dean says, "Dude, I'm fine. I just… I'm not feeling too hot tonight, that's all."

"That's what I thought." Castiel puts on a stern face, sounding determined. Dean wonders if he liked to play doctor as a child. "You should have told me earlier. We'll go now."

***

As it turns out, the stupid station is literally just around the corner. Owing to the lateness of the hour, Dean had thought the trains would have been mostly deserted at this point- but apparently, this was not the case so far into the city.

"There was a pub crawl tonight," Castiel informs him seriously. "There's going to be a lot of drunk people heading home."

"Great," Dean sighs. "Fantastic." 

He manages to squeeze in the last compartment behind a huge mountain of a man that could have given Sammy a run for his money if he'd been there, and Castiel just barely manages to slip in behind him before the doors close. The train lurches forwards with Castiel pressed up against Dean's back, and the two are momentarily crushed together as several passengers around them loose their footing. 

"Oof," Castiel wheezes, and Dean knows he's been flattened against the wall. 

"Sorry," he winces, "Sorry, sorry…" He twists around so that he can use the wall to prop himself up and give Castiel a little breathing room. "Better?"

"Better," Castiel mutters darkly, but he looks a little pink. His head is framed on either side by Dean's elbows and he's staring fixedly over Dean's shoulder with a strained expression. They're very close. Dean can smell him, and his chest gives a little throb and oh, GOD… this had better not be a crush. (Dean does not have time right now for a crush. Dean cannot have a crush. He's known Castiel for less than twenty four hours. He's a fucking stripper. Oh god.)

Dean's finding it difficult to breathe, so he can't imagine how Castiel is feeling. He turns his head a little so he can get a better look at him, just as Castiel turns to murmur into his ear, and the sides of their faces press together for a moment as Castiel says, "Tomorrow, after our private dance. What time does your shift end?" His voice is low and sultry and Dean can feel his hand sliding up to rest on Dean's shoulder as he speaks. His heart shudders. It is a crush after all. 

"I'll finish when you finish," he says, and his voice seems to be coming from very far away indeed. "Dick never wants me around for long on Thursdays."

"Okay," says Castiel simply. And then he leans away and goes back to glowering. Dean wishes desperately for a cold shower to fall from heaven. 

***

Thursday evening, Dean has completely recovered, and thus is given the much glorified task of holding Dick's coat, which isn't exactly thrilling in and of itself, but it does mean that Dean gets to be in the same room as Castiel during the show. He's got mixed feelings about the performance. On the one hand, Dean will get to watch Castiel strip, which is definitely a Good Thing. But, on the other hand, Dick will also get to watch Cas strip. And, Dick being a complete and utter dick, Dean's not sure exactly how that will go down: if Dick takes a shining to Castiel, it will destroy any chance Dean might have had of ever really being able to see the guy again, and, more importantly, it will put Castiel directly in the path to be at risk for all of Dick's typical dick behaviour. Dean may be able to handle Dick day in and day out, but he's been working the business for years and has built up a pretty thick skin. Castiel is different. Stripper Castiel might be willing to take it- but Dean's worried for glittery-sparrow Castiel, the one from the alley ways last night. Somehow he isn't so sure Castiel is prepared for a customer as extreme as Dick can be. He half hopes Castiel will get nervous himself and trip or slip or something just to throw Dick off. He regrets ever arranging to have the two in the same room. 

Castiel arrives at seven on the dot, and apparently the black leather has made a return. 

Dick gives him his prettiest smile.

"Castiel! You're looking fine tonight."

"Thank-you," Castiel nods. His eyes flick over to Dean lurking in the corner, and there's a flicker of a smile in them. "Do you mind if I get started right away?" He asks. "I understand this session should take twenty minutes, and I am on a tight schedule."

"Please," Dick agrees, all smooth smiles and precision, but Dean knows he noticed. 

Castiel keeps his expression carefully still, waits... and then there's music. He freezes for a fraction of a second before slowly, slowly, beginning to sway. Dean doesn't recognize the song, but Castiel obviously does because he shifts with the chord changes and cues in perfect time. It crosses Dean's mind that the dance is probably choreographed, but then Castiel reaches for his own chest and suddenly Dean's mind's gone completely blank because Castiel's staring right at him and all of the ferocity and blood is back full force. Dean watches, dry mouthed, as Castiel runs his fingers over his body and turns around, still dipping and sliding. The tempo's increasing, and Dean's heart is hammering in his chest long before deaf fingers finally reach to make quick work of the shirt buttons. And then there's skin, lean muscle, and the tattoos, and freaking nipples, and all of it closer than Dean's ever seen it before. Castiel glowers at both Dick and Dean in turn, and then he twists; his hands are reaching for his belt buckle, and dear lord god in heaven, there's no denying it now- Dean's been looking forwards to this. Castiel flips open the button. 

"Yes," Dick hisses hungrily.

And just like that, Dean's nauseous. Only this time it has nothing to do with his bodily health. 

The rest of the dance is a blur. The spell's been broken, and all he can think about is Dick and the way his breath keeps catching his throat as he watches Castiel writhe and turn. When the song finally ends it's all he can do to keep himself from running over and dragging Castiel out of the room as far away from Dick as possible. As it is, he just grips Dick's coat, white knuckled and sweating, and prays to god Dick doesn't ask for another round. He hears slow clapping. 

"Castiel Novak," Dick sighs, shaking his head as he gets to his feet. "What a show."

Castiel's panting. "Thank-you, Mr. Roman." 

"I have to ask..." Dick continues, saddling closer, and Dean stiffens. "Where could you have possibly learnt to dance like that?"

"The club provided some lessons," Cas growls. "Most of my dances are my own."

"I see. I see." Dick nods, and he reaches for Castiel's shoulder, open mouthed to say something more, but before he can Castiel jerks away and has slipped around him, heading for the door. 

"Thank-you for your business, Mr. Roman," he calls back in deep monotone, a little menacing. "I'll go now."

"Wai-" Dick starts, but Dean cuts him off. 

"WAIT!" he yelps, dashing after Castiel through the door, and Dick spins around in surprise.

"Winchester!" he barks, but Dean's already down the hall, ditching Dick's coat in crumpled pile. 

"Cas!" he calls, "Wait up!"

Castiel's already made it to the end of the hall, but he stops and turns to see who's calling. 

"Dean? What is it?" 

"Cas, hey, uh, heeeey...." Dean gulps. He doesn't actually know what he's doing out here. "Nice... nice show. Great job out there. You've, uh, really got stage presence." It's incredibly wince worthy- but Castiel smiles. 

"Thank-you, Dean. I intend to enter theatre one day."

"Really?" Dean asks, surprised. "That's awesome."

Castiel smiles shyly, but then his face hardens. "Where's your boss? He doesn't want another appointment, does he?"  
"No! No, Cas, I just- between you and me, I don't think you should make any more appointments with him, ever." Dean swallows. "He can get a little... and it's okay, with me, but for you... even I'm quitting, as soon as I can."

"Oh," Castiel blinks. "You're worried. It's alright, Dean. I don't like him either." He shuffles a little. "But... will you be coming back to the club some time?"

"Yeah, yeah..." Dean starts, but then he shakes his head. "Erm, no, not actually, I don't think. I don't want Dick to... But. I was thinking..." -he can feel the heat rising to his face- "I was thinking maybe we could see each other sometime else. Not that you were thinking of us seeing each other. That's not what I mean. Unless- well- it's just- maybe I could show you my car and, and then we can see a play or something, whatever you want." He can't believe he's saying this. "What do you say?"

Castiel grins, and it's the happiest Dean's ever seen him. "On a date, though?"

"Well-"

"I'd like that very much." 

It's like sunshine and daisies and kittens and rainbows and pie. 

"Great!" Dean's beaming like an idiot. "That's just- awesome!"

Castiel gives him an affectionate look. "How about next Wednesday? Your day off?"

"How about now?" Dean counters.

"I'm very sweaty and I need to put some clothing on," Castiel says after a moment. "But it's true I made up that stuff about a tight schedule. Give me fifteen to clean up. Then we can go."

"Okay," Dean laughs, "But watch out for sparkles this time."

And then they smooched. 

The End. 

***

 

P.S.

Yes, I know that was the crappiest link to Castiel being a thespian ever, but something started going on with my eyes in mid November, and I couldn't type for long periods of time without forfeiting any focus (physically, eyeball wise) on the board at school the next day, which kind of hindered production quite a bit. I'm really sorry. And I have no idea why Anna was in this at all. I had a plot in mind originally, I swear! But then sparkles, and sparrows, and the whole thing sort of ran away like a toboggan on a Christmas hill. But anyways, enough excuses- I had fun writing this and I think it ended up a good mix of not-very hard core sleaziness and general silliness, which is nice for a Christmas stripper fic. Happy Holidays to you! I wish you much love and supernatural tidings. :)

Love, your secret santa.


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